CHAPTER XI 
THE WHITE TRAIL 
Near the Kibali Hill, at the source of the Ban- 
galla River, I had, some years ago, a peculiar 
experience with an elephant. During the forenoon, 
I came up with him as he was placidly making a 
meal on the juicy fruits of the mbura tree—a large- 
stoned, brownish golden fruit of which elephants are 
peculiarly fond—but, a clump of small trees inter¬ 
vening between me and my quarry, shooting was a 
matter of extreme difficulty, and the first bullet from 
my '577, instead of penetrating his brain, went 
slightly high, and with a hoarse scream, the animal 
promptly bolted. After about another hour’s 
tracking under the direct rays of a broiling tropical 
sun, we came up with him again, and so little 
impression had my first bullet made on him, that 
he had once more stopped to feed, and when we 
actually caught sight of him, was sucking up water 
from his stomach with his trunk and sending it in a 
refreshing spray over his back. Trusting to take 
him unawares while indulging in this cooling 
